


Urban Legend

by foolishgames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:47:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scary stories and urban legends, and how to get them dead wrong.  Both an ending and a beginning. Sam and Dean and how it ends, and what comes after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urban Legend

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to livejournal October 2006.

In the light of the few candles, the girl’s eyes went wide. “And when he looked again,” she whispered dramatically, “there was nobody there!” 

Dead silence reigned for almost ten full seconds. 

“Shpff. Lame, Tory, really lame.” announced one of the other girls, and the original speaker rolled her eyes. 

“Fine,” Tory snapped sulkily. “You tell a story, Candice. It was your idea to begin with, anyway.” 

“This is stupid,” sneered another girl. “What are we, twelve?” 

“Hey, Anna!” sang Candice, and threw a pillow hard at her head. “Quit complaining. Nobody made you come.” 

“I’ve got a story,” said the one girl who had so far been silent. She looked around, dark, wide eyes gleaming oddly in the candlelight. “And it’s a true story, too.” 

“Happened to a friend of a friend of yours? C’mon, Sherry.” Tory, it seemed, was still bitter about the reception her own story had recieved. 

She shook her head. “My dad. Just after he became sheriff.” 

“Okay. But after this, no more ghost stories, okay? It’s stupid.” 

Sherry nodded and settled herself. “It was a dark and stormy night.” A piece of popcorn hit her in the head and somebody sniggered. She looked annoyed. “Well, it was. Remember, that big storm the collapsed the roof of the school gym, about six years ago? That night.” 

“I remember that,” commented Anna. “Shame it happened in the middle of summer.” 

“The morning after, my dad gets this call, from somebody out on the highway, said there’d been a car accident. So he goes out, and sure enough, there’s a wreck there. It was a nice car, a vintage Chevy, well look after, except for the fact that it was wrapped around a tree. Two young guys in the front seat. Dad reckoned, well, the driver probably lost control in the rain and ran off the road. Damn shame, but nothing weird or suspicious. Just an accident. So he calls a tow truck, does what needs doing. The real trouble starts when he starts trying to find out who these guys are. 

He runs the plates on this car and finds out that not only is the registration expired – like five, six years expired – this car has been noted in conjunction with like, six different crimes in six months. Not robberies or shit like that, really bad stuff. Murders and mutilations and disappearances. And in the glove box, there’s a bunch of different forged IDs, for the FBI, Homeland Security, dozens of government agencies and stuff. As well as credit cards in ten different names.” She took a sip of her drink and leaned forward. “And then? He opens the trunk. And in the compartment for the spare tire, there’s a bunch of weapons. Guns, pistols and shotguns and a sniper rifle even, and knives and machetes and a couple of crossbows for god’s sake. And enough ammo to start a war. But that wasn’t the worst. Underneath all these weapons were all these old books, spellbooks and grimoires. Satanic stuff, Dad said. And charms and amulets, and underneath that, all files and newspaper clipping and notes and photographs on disappearances and murders all over the country.” 

“Wow,” Candice breathed. “Who were they?” 

Sherry smiled sharkishly. “That’s the good bit. Dad was freaking out over this stuff, y’know? He’d only been made sheriff like six months beforehand, and he knew he was in way over his head. He knew he should have called in the Feds, but he couldn’t help digging, just a bit more. So he got prints off the two dead guys and ran them. Turns out they were brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester. Sam was a college student who had dropped clear off the radar about two years before, after his girlfriend died. And Dean was already dead.” 

“Weren’t they both dead?” Tory asked, confused. 

“Yeah, but this guy Dean had supposedly died about eighteen months beforehand, in St Louis. He’d murdered a bunch of girls, and then the cops supposedly found him with a couple of bullets in him at one of the crime scenes. They never knew what had happened, and never dug too deep, they were just that grateful that he’d been stopped. But they took his prints and had photos him dead, and they cremated the body, and then he shows up almost two years later, driving along with his little brother. They did every test they could think of, fingerprints and DNA and dental records, the whole nine yards, and it was definitely the same guy. Only he’d been up and walking around, and not-dead.” 

“That’s creepy,” said Candice, with a little shiver. 

“So Dad’s called in the Feds by this time, and they show up and take off with everything – the car, the bodies, all the stuff in the trunk and everything. Dad was really mad, that they wouldn’t tell him anything more, that these two guys could have been running around his town, hurting people he was supposed to protect, and that the damn Feds wouldn’t tell him a thing. But he figured, case closed. Done, you know? Two dead freaks in their car, they won’t be hurting anybody else now.” 

“Only six months later, Susan Delaney shows up at the police station saying that was attacked, that some asshole had tried to rape her, and that she’d been rescued by these two guys, brothers, and she described these guys exactly, and said they drove her to the police station in their vintage Chevy and then disappeared.” 

“And then when little Tommy Rainer disappeared – remember that? The whole town was freaking out, because it was the middle of winter and was only, like, three or something. Two days after he goes missing, there’s a knock on Mrs Rainer’s door, and it’s two guys, hanging on to Tommy’s little hands, and they smile nicely and call her Ma’am and say they found Tommy hiding out in the old Baker place, and they refuse to come in, and they go and get in their car – same car, same black Chevy – and drive off. She takes the plates, because she’s suspicious that way, and it’s the same car. The car that crashed. She IDs the guys from the photos that Dad kept on file of them. It’s the same guys, the ones who died in the crash, the same car.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Anna. “They were murderers, right? Why would they be saving people?” 

Sherry shrugged. “No idea. But I’ve heard that sometime you can see their car around town with these two guys inside, just driving around, just watching, playing loud rock music and waiting to save people. Maybe they’re trying to atone for their sins.” She swallowed. “And when it’s storming and dark and the roads are slippery, on a night like tonight, if you go out onto the highway and watch the tree with all the bark ripped off one side, you’ll see it, this car, these guys. Spinning out of control, slamming into the tree.” 

There was silence in the room, as the girl contemplated the flickering candles. Finally, Sherry looked up. “So, how was that for a ghost story?” 

Anna threw a cushion at her. “That was freaky. I need chocolate now.” 

Tory grinned. “Hey, maybe next we can play truth or dare!” 

Candice groaned. “No, no more stupid games. Let’s watch a movie or something.” 

“The Ring!” growled Candice, and grabbed Anna by the back of the neck. She shrieked, and everybody laughed, and the still, tense silence faded. 

~

The interior of the car was warm and smelled of sweat and dirt and home. The windows were a little foggy, and Dean cursed softly as he leaned forward and scrubbed at the windshield, squinting to try and see through the rain. Sam shifted in the passenger seat, opened his eyes, squinted sleepily. “Time s’it?” he slurred. 

Dean checked his watch. “Little after two. Go back to sleep.” 

Sam twisted, trying to find a comfortable position. “Need me to drive?” 

“Nah. Sleep.” Dean reached over and rubbed Sam’s shoulder, the way he had done when Sammy was grotty and teething and nine months old. It worked now as it had then, Sam’s eyes sliding closed. 

“Lemme know. You have to sleep sometime,” he murmured, and Dean gave a little half smile. 

Sam's always asleep when it happens. He, at least, never feels the impact, has no memory of the tires skidding terrifyingly over the wet road, the metal twisting and glass smashing and the weird noise that stands out that Dean finally figured out was his own skull smashing like an overripe melon. 

After it’s all over, Sam sits up and blinks at him, blood all over his face, missing teeth, snapped neck struggling to support the weight of his head. “I’m getting kind of sick of this, Dean.” 

Dean shrugs and wipes at the side of his neck. One of these days, the brain fluid dripping from his ears is going to stop freaking him out, and at that point, he supposes he’ll have accepted his own death. “Dad’ll find us,” he says confidently. “It’ll be over soon.” 

Sam sighs. “Yeah, I guess.” He slumps back. “I hate the rain.” 

Dean shifts in his seat and retrieves a piece of the steering column from his chest. It makes a wet, sucking noise as it pulls free. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Me too.”


End file.
